


Joy Of My Heart

by elrhiarhodan



Series: Elrhiarhodan's 2019 Personal Writing Challenge [7]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternative Universe - Eighteenth Century, Alternative Universe - Scottish Highlands, Class Differences, Jacobite Rebellion, M/M, War, alternative universe, hidden messages, merlahad, promises kept, promises made
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 07:05:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18960307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: Hamish, bastard son of the late Earl of Kincoch, had refused his father's call to fight for The Pretender, Charles Stuart, at Culloden Moor, and now has the dubious honor of welcoming the new Earl, a damned Englishman, to the decaying highland estate.The new earl, for his part, meets Hamish's expectations, from his powdered wig, his fancy velvet coat and high-heeled shoes, to the tiny beauty patch on his cheek - in the shape of a small falcon - a merlin.





	Joy Of My Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anarchycox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchycox/gifts).



> One more story written in the quest to silence the You Suck voice (and I think it's working). This one is from a prompt my dearest AnarchyCox gave me, which is spoilery so I'm putting it in the end notes.
> 
> I honestly do not know how my brain settled on this setting. I've been fascinated with Highland social and political history since my teenage years (blame all the romances I read in high school and college). This is not, in any way, shape, or form, a homage or fusion with Outlander. I read about half of the first book when it came out, and found it not to my taste. More importantly, I hold the author and her position on fan works and transformative works, in the least possible regard. 
> 
> I do think the You Suck voice is finally receding. I had a lot of fun writing this story and am kind of proud of it (not just for the story itself, but for my restraint in not writing 50K). I will probably put together a playlist and a moodboard for it this weekend.

Hamish re-reads the letter, which isn't the least bit necessary. He's read it so many times, he has it memorized.

The Crown, in its infinite lack of wisdom, has granted the Kinloch lands and title to an Englishman - at least Bloody George didn't declare the man the new clan chief. Imagine, a bloody Sassenach the head of a highland clan. Of course the letter doesn't give the buggering bastard's name, just that he'd performed loyal service to the Crown in the overseas wars, and the title and estate has been granted to him, and that he's traveling north in the month of June to take possession.

It's now the tenth day of June, in the year of Our Lord 1749.

Hamish sighs and tosses the letter onto his desk. The letter requires that the estate be made ready for its new owner, but Hamish has to wonder where the funds are going to come to pay for that. The roof is there in name only, the lower levels are barely habitable, the staff – such as it is – hasn't been paid for years and has little inclination to work for some poncy Sassenach lord in a wig and dancing slippers.

Not for the first time, Hamish curses his father, the late Earl. He curses him for his own existence – the man couldn't keep his prick in his pants and had sired bastards from Hadrian's Wall to John O'Groats; Hamish knows of at least four other half-siblings and there are probably at least that many more. Pity that Donal Keith couldn't get either sons off of his brides. Also a pity - and a bloody bigger one - that the old Earl threw his lot in with the Stuart Pretender, took half the crofters to fight the English and led them to pointless slaughter on Culloden Moor.

In the years since '45, the English have not been kind to the Scots, even those who didn't follow the Jacobite call to arms. Redcoated soldiers have swarmed all over Scotland like poisonous ants, infesting every town and valley, banning the native tongue, transporting the young and the old for the slightest act of defiance. Kinloch, already weakened by the loss of a generation of young men, may not survive its greedy new lord.

Hamish has heard too many terrible stories, of crofters burned out of their homes to make way for sheep, and he sees that happening here, all too clearly. Unlike farming on the rocky Highland slopes, sheep are cheap and profitable and require only a few men to maintain. Without farms, there'd no need for the extensive network of families to work them, and they'd be put off the land they'd tended for generations.

The sound of hoofbeats draws Hamish out to the yard in front of his small cottage. It's Roxanne, another one of the old lord's bastards, and it looks like the devil is on her heels. She reins the big black gelding to a halt and climbs out of the saddle. 

"What's the matter, lass?"

"They're coming! Just a few minutes behind me."

"The new lord?"

"Aye, bastard has an escort. A whole troop of redcoats out of Fort George." Roxanne takes the horse to the back of the cottage, it wouldn't do for the English to see such a fine, if elderly, beast and returns to his side.

Hamish isn't surprised about the military escort. The new lord could well fear that he'd be murdered as soon as he stepped out of his carriage. The thought had crossed Hamish's mind, but he wouldn't risk the people here – the English would burn down every cottage and kill all of the old men and young boys before raping the woman and sending them to the workhouses in the south.

Nae, there'll be no murder here. Not under his watch.

The ground rumbles and the clatter of iron shod hooves against the road grows louder with each heartbeat. Roxanne, as fierce a protector of these lands and their people as Hamish, looks like she's ready to kill. "Stand behind me, lass. Ye don't want to attract their attention." He'd send Roxanne into the cottage, but he knows she wouldn't go.

The troop, twenty men surrounding a gilded and gleaming coach-and-eight, followed by a smaller and more serviceable conveyance, come to a halt in front of Hamish. It's actually a close-run thing, the momentum almost propels the carriage off the road and into the ditch. But the driver has good control of his beasts and the small cavalry unit shows decent discipline.

"Which way to the castle?"

Hamish is impressed that the captain doesn't toss out a slur or two with the question. "Up the road a bit more."

To everyone's surprise, the tiger on the back of the coach jumps down and opens the door. A vision in velvet and lace, complete with powdered wig, clocked stockings, and shoes with bejeweled buckles steps down. The man even carries a beribboned walking stick.

"Captain Spenser, at the last turn, I told you we were almost there. Stopping to chat with the locals is a waste of your time."

The English captain bows from the saddle. "My apologies, my lord. I wanted to make sure we reached our proper destination."

"So you want to ask one of the local peasants?" The man waves a lace handkerchief in front of his face, as if to dispel the odor of poverty.

"I have found that checking with the locals is often the best recourse, my lord."

"Until they tell you to take the left fork in the road and next thing, we're all going off of a cliff."

Hamish bites his lip and tries not to sneer. If things aren't so dire, if he isn't responsible for so many lives, he might do just that.

"Again, my lord, my apologies."

The English lord waves his handkerchief at the officer and approaches Hamish. "So, you're one of my people now."

Hamish stares at the man. He's never been this close to a fancy English milord before. He can see the grains of powder coating his face, the stain of rouge on his lips and cheeks, and of all things, a beauty mark just below his mouth, in the shape of a small black falcon. The man's eyes are a bit incongruous with the coldness of his expression, soft brown and sparkling with something Hamish might say is fondness and good humor.

"Welcome to Kinloch, milord. I'm the steward of the estate, unless ye plan to bring in yer own man." Hamish would tug on his forelock, except he's bald as an egg. But he does bow his head in a show of submission. 

"Well, I have no plans for that at this moment. You will have to do. What shall I call you?"

"My name is Hamish, milord. But some of the folks around here once called me Merlin." This is such a calculated risk.

The new lord doesn't miss a beat. "And I am Lord Henry Hart, by the grace of King George himself, now the Earl of Kinloch. And while my intimates will call me Harry, the folk in London have rather unprintable names for me." The man grins and the powder cracks a bit around his dimples.

Captain Spenser calls out, "My lord, we will lose the sun soon, and I am charged to see you safely home."

Lord Hart spins on one of those ridiculous heels. "Ah, of course. I should be loath to interfere with your duties. Let us go to the castle."

Hamish nods again, hoping that the housekeeper has found one habitable room for his lordship. "Welcome to Kinloch, milord."

As he climbs back into his coach, Lord Hart looks at Roxanne, who he hadn't acknowledged and then at him and smiles. Hamish feels like a ghost has walked over his grave. He stands there, lost in thought as the coach and the soldiers head down the lane to the castle.

Roxanne spits in the dust they've raise. "What a fecking arse."

"Who?"

"The new lord. He's going to be the death of Kinloch, Merlin. We'll all be out before the summer's over, mark my words. He'll bring in sheep and enclose the farms and put us all on boats for the Americas."

Hamish isn't ready to contradict her. He stares out into the distance, but all he can see is the small beauty mark, the small black falcon. Hope and a surge of joy fills his heart.

"Go home, lass. There's still be work for all of us in the morning."

"Aye, it'll take a while before the Sassenach settles in and makes our lives a misery." She goes to the back of the cottage and retrieve the gelding. "I bid ye good evening, Master Hamish."

Hamish watches Roxanne ride off to the small cottage she'd taken over since her mam had died. He feels a surge of anger and pity; the lass is too smart to be confined to such a small and poor estate. 

At least Hamish doesn't have to worry about her catching Lord Hart's eye.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The sun has finally set, although this far north and this early in the summer, it'll not be fully dark until nearly midnight. A few hours ago, Hamish had heard the English troops clatter back down the road, returning to Fort George, but he didn't leave the cottage to watch them pass.

Before his supper, he'd pulled a flask of cider from the well; the chilled bitterness a distinct pleasure on a hot summer night. Hamish has never been a gaming man, preferring the sure thing to the possibility of great fortune or tragic loss. It's why he'd refused the lord's call to arms, staying home in the relative safety of an impoverished Highland estate instead of seeking glory with Bonnie Prince Charlie. 

But tonight he's gambling - albeit with himself. Staying awake and awaiting, rubbing his thumb over a small black mark on the inside of his wrist. It's not a birthmark, but a bit of insanity someone had put there with a needle and a bottle of India ink. The mark is a leaping stag, or at least that's what it's supposed to be. It had once been a promise, a vow of fidelity and loyalty. For thirty years and then some, Hamish has kept that vow. 

Tonight he finds out if keeping that vow has been worth it.

"Good evening, Merlin." Harry doesn't knock, he just comes in as if he owns the place. Well, in truth, he does.

The moonlight provides better illumination than any candle. Harry's washed his face clean of the powder and paint, the wig is gone, and his unpowered hair is caught up in a queue. The moonlight picks of strands of silver in the dark gold and it reminds Merlin of all the years that have gone by.

He doesn't say anything, just empties the last of the cider into his mug and offers it to Harry. "Welcome home, old friend." 

Harry takes it and drains the mug in one smooth gulp; Merlin watches Harry's uncovered throat with a combination of lust and nostalgia. "It's good to be back."

The warm silence is fraught. Merlin has so many questions.

But Harry speaks first, his voice almost trembling with emotion. "I was afraid you'd gone to fight, that you'd died in that slaughter. When I heard that the Donal had thrown his lot - and the lives of every man in Kinloch under fifty - in with The Pretender, I thought I'd lost you forever. There was no list of the dead at Culloden and for a year, I didn't know if you'd made it out alive. I finally sent an agent to Kinloch to find out if you came home. I cried when I'd gotten his letter telling me that Hamish of Clan Gayre had not gone to fight."

"I didn't follow the Donal. I'm a loyal Scotsman, but Cherlie was never going to win the day. And besides, I made a promise to ye, Harry, that I'd stay here and wait for ye to come home."

In the darkness, everything feels too much, and when Harry reaches out and cups his cheek, Merlin can't stop the tears. "It's been a lifetime, Harry. Why did you wait so long to come back?"

"I kept my promise, Merlin. We might have been just boys, but my feeling had always been true. Everything I've done for the past thirty years has been to bring me back here."

"It's ironic, ye once named me for a bird of prey, but ye bound me here like the dullest creature of the earth."

"I know. I wanted to keep you safe, I didn't think - "

Merlin hears the grief and soothes the man he's been waiting for. "It's all right, Harry. I didn't go to war. I stayed and waited for ye, I never stopped believing that ye'd keep yer promise."

Harry leans forward and kisses him, so gently, so carefully. "I have been true to you in my heart, but not my body. I need you to know that."

"I hadn't expected ye to be a monk, Harry. It's been a lifetime."

"And you?" 

Merlin hears the jealousy in those two simple words. "My tastes are not as … diverse as yers, and finding someone compatible is nigh impossible here. And when ye've had what we shared, second-best would be like tupping one of those infernal sheep."

Harry's chortle fills the small cottage. "Thank you. You are so good for my ego."

"So, what do ye think of yer new domain?"

"What the hell happened to the castle?" Harry's question isn't unexpected. 

Merlin isn't shy with the truth. "The Donal had little interest in anything after your mam died and ye went south. He let the place fall down around his ears, wouldn't listen to reason. Hoarded the rents, refused to commit to repairs on the crofts, practically bled the tenants dry. Honestly, it always amazed me that anyone chose to follow him to battle. But I guess the old loyalty had been too hard to break." 

"I don't know if I'll be able to save the castle. It'll take a fortune and a lifetime. But with your help, it's worth the shot."

Merlin lets out a deep breath; he's been wanting to have his say about the castle for a while. "Ye shouldn't try. Ye should leave it to rot."

Harry is taken aback. "Merlin, what are you saying? It's the _castle_ , the home of Clan Gayre, it's stood since the time of the Bruce!"

"It's a wreck and a disaster, and the wind and the winter will take it soon enough. Ye can pour yer heart and yer fortune into it, but it'll never be livable again." 

"You're serious." Harry is appalled.

"Aye. I've been through it, from rafter to cellar, and I'll give ye my notes. The entire roof is gone, the foundations are cracked and water's seeping in from the loch. Half the curtain wall is gone, there are mites in the timbers. If ye've been dreaming of being a highland lord and walking the parapet of yer castle, I'm afraid those dreams will nae come true."

"So, what should I do? Turn around and go back to London? Let it rot, let all of you starve? I'm not bringing in any bloody sheep."

Merlin smiles. Whatever worry he had about Harry's intentions are eased. "Ye could build a new place, something grand, something modern. A mansion, not a castle. There are not too many men left here in Kinloch, but there are men all over the highlands who've been burned out of their homes. Give them a reason to settle here, to build yer grand house, to work the land. Ye can be as fancy as ye like, and as long as ye mean it about not bringing in the bloody sheep and letting the people work the land, they'll follow ye forever."

"You've been thinking about this, haven't you?"

"Aye. For a while."

"A while?"

"Since the soldiers came and told me the Donal died a traitor at Culloden, with all the clansman that had followed him. That the English Crown had seized the estate and would dispose of the title and property as it saw fit. I expected to have this conversation with whoever took possession. And in truth, I thought it would be a much harder sell." 

"You should be lord here, Merlin. You're the Donal's eldest son."

"Pity he didn't marry my mam, though. Ye know the Donal spread his seed far and wide. The girl who was standing next to me this afternoon, she's one of his get, too. Remember Sorcha Morton? The Donal kept her in his bed for a year, until she started to bloom. He might have rogered every lass he laid eyes on, but he did do right by the ones he got with child. He gave Sorcha a freehold and a cottage when her parents washed their hands of her. He sent Roxanne to a fine school in Edinburgh, for all that she cares about being a proper lady. I don't know if the Donal had actually loved Roxanne, but he did care about her future. At least until Charlie ruined everything."

"I'm sorry, Merlin. For staying away for so long. For never even writing to you. You probably thought I'd forgotten."

Merlin shrugs. "I've had my moments of doubt. Didn't even recognize you in that fancy get-up this afternoon. Not until I saw yer eyes. And that beauty mark."

"I thought that would be a nice touch." Harry touches Merlin's cheek again. "I know it's been a lifetime, but this is my home. I can't tell you how happy I am to be back."

"Ye might not be a Gayre by name or by blood, but ye are one by heart."

"My family thinks I'm insane, relocating to the ends of the earth. My cousins are likely waiting with bated breath for news of my demise at the hands of some bloodthirsty highland savages."

Merlin won't let anything happen to Harry. "Little do they know …" Merlin trails off, remembering them as children, playing fierce games as with Harry pretending to be Robert the Bruce and Merlin as his loyal William Wallace. They'd certainly been savages. 

"Remember when we'd turned fourteen, and the Donal took us hunting? For our first red deer."

"He painted our faces with the beast's blood."

"I practically retched when he showed us how to field dress our kill."

"Yer mother screamed when she saw us."

"Aye, and then she fainted."

They sit there, lost in pleasant memory.

Merlin gets up and holds out his hand to Harry. "Will ye share my bed tonight?"

"I've been waiting a long time to hear you ask me that question. And my answer is, of course. I'd share it every night if I could."

Merlin pulls Harry into the bedroom, pushing his shirt off his shoulders, admiring how the moonlight gilds that fine English skin. "I won't move to the castle, or to your fine new mansion once it's built."

"I know." Harry presses his mouth to the base of Merlin's neck and Merlin shivers. "But you'll at least allow me to buy you a better bed and fine linens. I've become fussy in my advanced years."

Merlin works open Harry's breeches and palms his cock over the linen smallclothes. "Only the best for ye, my fine lord?"

"Exactly." Harry undresses Merlin with ease, pushing him back onto the too-narrow bed. "This will be fun."

"One of us will end up on the floor by morning."

"Of course. It's a risk I'm willing to take." Harry kisses him on the mouth and Merlin forgets everything. His heart has come home.

_FIN_

**Author's Note:**

> AnarchyCox's prompt was "Merlahad - Reunion after a long time apart".
> 
> Comments and kudos are love (and they do go a long way to giving me back my confidence).


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